100 Days of Mystrade
by themeaday
Summary: 100 short pieces of fiction about the relationship between DI Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes. Each piece is written for one of the themes from the 100 themes challenge. Pieces are all written for the same Universe, but are not chronological. Linked with the piece '100 Days of Johnlock'.
1. Introduction

Day One

Theme - Introduction

Time Frame - Christmas 2012

* * *

Greg sighed as he fumbled with the knot in his tie for the third time in five minutes, tugging it out and leaving the ends loose for a brief moment. He had just begun a fourth attempt when there was a gentle knock at the door. It opened before Greg could respond to the knock, and he continued to fiddle with the ends of his tie as Mycroft stepped into the room.

They remained silent for a short while, Mycroft leaning in the doorway until Greg dropped a loose, wonky Windsor knot against his chest with a frustrated sigh. He had been tying the exact same knot since he was a teenager and had not had to actively think about how it was done for nearly two decades, but his fingers seemed to be refusing to cooperate with his brain.

"Let me," Mycroft offered. Less than a minute later a perfect knot sat snugly against Greg's collar and Mycroft was holding a jacket out for him. "You're nervous." Greg chuckled humourlessly at the statement, turning to Mycroft and dropping his forehead onto the other man's shoulder.

"A little, yeah." An arm was wrapped gently around his shoulders and he let himself relax into the hold.

"Do try not to be, Gregory, there's really nothing to worry about," Mycroft muttered, and Greg felt lips press gently against his hair.

"I'm spending the evening in a room full of Holmes', you're lucky I'm not a blubbering mess in the corner at the thought of it," Greg replied, lifting his head to look up at Mycroft.

"We're not all that bad, surely?"

"I can just about manage one at a time," Greg told him, "Are they all like you and-" He cut himself off, pulling away to return to the mirror, fiddling with his suit and hair. Mycroft followed and stood behind him, catching his gaze in the reflection.

"Many of my relatives have settled over in Europe. They work in politics, research, business management, journalism and various other professions of the like. They are a group of highly intelligent and cultured people who see themselves as part of the upper class. But I assure you that not one of them is quite like Sherlock. They will not go out of their way to make this evening difficult or unpleasant. In fact, I rather expect that they will like you," he assured Greg, taking a step towards the door and holding his hand out towards the grey haired man. "Come now, Mummy will not appreciate our being late." Greg paused for only a brief moment before taking the offered hand and letting Mycroft tug him out of the room.

Within the first hour, Greg found himself introduced to no fewer than twenty Holmes and nee Holmes and could remember precisely none of their names, professions, nor how they were related to Mycroft. He had the beginnings of a stress headache forming at the base of his skull from attempting to keep up with small talk that seemed to be mostly revolving around foreign politics, had lost track of Mycroft nearly fifteen minutes previously and had been unable to find a point at which to politely remove himself from the group which he had been left with.

He was nodding his way politely through a rather one-sided discussion which he was fairly certain involved Italian politics when a hand came to rest on his shoulder and Mycroft's voice cut smoothly into the conversation.

"Ah, Uncle Arthur, would you mind terribly if I were to borrow Gregory for a while? Mummy has been so keen to meet him."

"Of course, Mycroft, of course," Uncle Arthur waved them off as he replied. Greg gripped the hand which Mycroft had slipped into his as he was led across the room.

"Thank goodness, it was only a matter of time before he worked out that I didn't have a clue what he was talking about," Greg commented.

"Well, Mummy will be asking questions about you. Do you think you'll manage those?" Mycroft asked, earning himself a gentle bat on the arm. He pulled Greg up beside him as they stopped in front of a tall woman who appeared to be in her seventies and if looks were anything to go by, could only be Mummy Holmes.

"Mycroft, hello dear. Who's this you've bought with you?" She asked, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her eldest son's cheek. Mycroft smiled and returned the gesture, wrapping an arm around Greg's waist before replying.

"Mummy, I'd like to introduce you to Gregory Lestrade."


	2. Complicated

Day Two

Theme - Complicated

Time Frame - The day of The Fall

* * *

Greg had been pacing his flat for the last forty three minutes. He knew this because he had checked his phone at least once every two minutes since getting through the front door and hanging up his coat. In that time he had attempted to settle on the sofa or by the window four times, tried to call Mycroft twice and left one very unclear message on the other man's answering machine when he had not answered either time.

The call that came in from Barts Hospital of a suicide had not caused any more of a stir at the Yard than such calls usually did. Not, at least, until a name had been put to the involved parties. It took less than five minutes after the name 'Sherlock Holmes' had begun to make its way around the office for Greg to be told to go home, informed that he was not to be involved in any way. He had wondered vaguely on his way home if they would bother with the formality of suspending him for an inquest, or if they would skip straight to firing him for the whole debacle. His admission after Sherlock had 'abducted' John that he did not believe a word that Richard Brook said was unlikely to have done him any favours.

He was still pacing nearly an hour later when his phone finally pinged to inform him that he had a text. He fumbled to answer it, frowning at the number on realising that it was not Mycroft's, nor any other number that he had programmed into the device.

_Inspector Lestrade, I'm texting you on behalf of my employer, Mycroft Holmes. He will be arriving at your place of residence shortly. ETA: 5 minutes._

Greg read the overly formal text twice before cursing under his breath. He had wanted to talk to Mycroft, but he was not sure that he was prepared to see him for the discussion. Greg dropped himself into his armchair, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the back before cursing again, louder. They had spent the past few months carefully cultivating a relationship, which was still in its fledgling stages, but Greg was rather more concerned about their friendship. A friendship which they had been building since their first meeting, when Mycroft had arrived at the Yard to collect Sherlock, who was in the process of coming down from a high in one of the cells. He knew as well as anyone the amount of pressure that Mycroft put on himself to protect Sherlock, and he had long ago promised to do anything within his power to help. He had failed, miserably so, and while his job had often required that he break bad news to families he had no idea how to cope with the fallout. Nor was he sure how the elder Holmes brother would react to the fact that neither of them had done enough to save Sherlock. Though whether Sherlock had needed saving from Moriarty or himself, Greg had not quite managed to work out.

Mycroft had arrived, and Greg had stumbled through the pantomime of being a host that neither of them really cared for at the current time. They had sat in a not quite awkward silence, both unsure of where to begin. After a handful of long, painful seconds, Greg had taken a deep breath, looked up at Mycroft, and immediately forgotten what it was that he had been planning to say.

Mycroft's mask had always been a good one, nigh on impossible to read without knowing something about the man's tells. Sitting in Greg's small living room with the corners of his mouth pulled down, his shoulders slumped, a slight twitch in his jaw and a clear sadness in usually calm eyes, he may as well have been sobbing.

"Mycroft, I-" Greg swallowed, trying to keep his own shaking voice under control, "I'm sorry." It was not even close to adequate, but it was all that he was sure he could manage while staying fully coherent.

"It is hardly your fault, Gregory." Mycroft's voice was soft as he replied. "The situation with Moriarty was a complex one; clearly there were nuances to his plan and strengths which he had that both Sherlock and I missed. If anyone has failed my brother in this situation, it is myself." The shake which was lacking in Mycroft's voice, Greg realised, was instead present in his hands.

The silence stretched out for another full minute, both men searching for something to say in the situation. Greg took the time to move himself from the armchair to sit next to Mycroft on the sofa. He was not entirely surprised when the government official curled towards him, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Greg's shoulder. The shaking was more obvious in this position, directly in contact with each other, Greg having shifted to pull Mycroft into an embrace.

"There will be an inquest," Mycroft spoke into Greg's shoulder, "It has been... politely suggested that I take leave from the office for two weeks while they look into what happened. I suppose they also expect me to organise the funeral and my brother's affairs."

"Just… try not to worry about it right now." Greg cringed inwardly even as he spoke, he really had no idea what he was supposed to be saying, or doing. "We'll deal with it one step at a time," he promised. He curled himself up against Mycroft as they lapsed into silence again, trying not to dwell on quite how badly they had both screwed up as the shaking slowly began to calm. Everyone involved had made a right mess of it, that was for sure.


	3. Making History

Day Three

Theme - Making History

Time Frame - Late 2014

* * *

Greg had woken up in the way which he had always thought of as being by far the best way to do so. A slow, unforced rise through the stages of beckoning consciousness which left the world basked in a slightly fuzzy glow - the glow of everything being just fine. The sort of waking up that meant he had actually had enough sleep and his brain was going to be able to function whenever he decided he needed it to. His usual way of waking up - torn from sleep unwillingly by the high trill of an alarm, leaving him barely able to keep his eyes focused until he had made his way through at least two cups of coffee - could not even begin to compare.

Once he was awake enough, Greg took a moment to gather the thoughts which had been sitting patiently at the back of his mind. Sun was peeking through a gap in the curtains. It was not bright enough for late morning, suggesting that it was still early enough for him to not have to worry about being up, particularly on his first day off in too long. He had rolled onto his side in the night, his back now pressed up against a warm body beside him in the bed. The fact only convinced him further that it was early, as he usually woke to find Mycroft's side of the bed either cooling or already cold. The bedroom was warm, the bed was comfortable, and Greg had no inclination to leave, nor to move from his position.

A light tapping caught his attention after a few minutes of dosing, and he allowed himself to be further lulled by it for a moment before he shifted so that he could see over his shoulder. Mycroft was half sitting in the bed, propped up by pillows against the headboard, his fingers flying over the keys of his mobile. Mycroft's hair and shirt were both mussed from sleep and Greg took a moment to appreciate the sight before speaking.

"Are you texting?" He asked through a yawn, settling onto his back.

"Emailing," Mycroft muttered in reply. "You know how I loathe texting." Greg took the opportunity of Mycroft's slight distraction to pluck the phone from his hands and drop it into the draw of his bedside table, out of Mycroft's reach. "Gregory, I-"

"No work. For once we both have the day off, so no running the world from bed." Greg shifted back across the mattress to Mycroft, maintaining eye contact under a glare that would send most men running for cover.

"I occupy a minor position in the Traffic department, Gregory. It's hardly running the world."

"Well then, nothing will fall apart if you wait until tomorrow to reply, them." Greg smiled as the glare intensified a little, raising his hands in surrender. "After breakfast, at least."

"One reply, then breakfast," Mycroft immediately countered. Greg was used to the bargaining game and considered for a moment before nodding.

"Fine, but the phone goes off through breakfast and replies to emails can wait if we're in the middle of something. And you're making breakfast." He handed the phone back and pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft's shoulder before climbing out of the bed. "I'm going to shower, I expect you to be done with organising future historical events by the time I'm done."

"It's just traffic, Gregory!"

"Traffic may one day be a very important part of history. It'll be in all the textbooks," Greg called back before shutting the bathroom door. He was fairly sure that he heard a pillow hitting the other side a moment later and he grinned to himself.


	4. Rivalry

Day Four

Theme - Rivalry

Time Frame - Christmas 2015

* * *

Greg forced himself to keep his breathing controlled and even as he moved around the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea. There was a tremor in his hands as he waited for the kettle to boil, and he focused on bringing it under control and squashing down the urge to shout which he could feel rising in the back of his mind. Shouting was not the way to deal with arguments; it did not lead to solutions. Shouting led to full blown arguments and screaming matches, it led to people he cared about storming off and it led to the end of relationships. So instead he stood in the kitchen and fumed, as he had fumed through the drive home.

He had left Mycroft in the living room when they had arrived back to their flat and headed straight for the kitchen. When he returned with his tea, the government official was perched on the sofa, fingers steepeled together and pressed against his lips. Greg settled himself into one of the armchairs, sipping his too hot tea and trying not to wince as it scalded his tongue.

"We need to talk about this," Greg eventually stated, placing his tea down on the coffee table and turning his attention to his partner. Mycroft sat up a little straighter, dropping his hands from his face and folding them in his lap.

"Yes, I believe we should discuss your illogical anger this evening," Mycroft replied. Greg sighed, running his hands over his face and taking a moment to rub his temples.

"No," he ground out after a moment, "No, none of your games this evening. You know exactly what I'm talking about. I get that you and Sherlock have never grown out of your childhood rivalry, Mycroft. I've asked before, and when you made it clear that it wasn't something that you wanted to discuss I left it. Sherlock is as bad as a six year old most of the time I have to deal with him, but God knows that when you two are in a room together you bring out the worst in each other. I need to make something very clear, because apparently I haven't in the past." Greg paused, taking another drag from his cooling tea as he considered exactly how to phrase what he had to say. When he replaced the mug on the table he made eye contact once again with Mycroft. "I enjoy the Christmas party that we go to each year. I like seeing your mother and catching up with your Uncle Arthur. I do not, however, appreciate being caught in the middle of the crossfire when you and Sherlock get started on each other. I am not something that you own. I am not something that you can hold over your brother's head. I will not be compared to John and shown off because you and Sherlock are still desperate to outdo each other. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal," Mycroft replied, and Greg knew that he was not going to get the apology that he had been hoping for that evening. Nor was he going to get any sort of discussion on the matter, if the mask which Mycroft's face had become was anything to go by.

"Right, good." Greg stood, taking his empty mug with him to the kitchen and stacking it into the dishwasher. As he reentered the living room he paused in the doorway, looking at Mycroft for a long moment before making his decision. "I'm going to bed. I suggest you better acquaint yourself with the sofa, or the bed in the spare room if you'd rather." The only reply he received was a jerky nod.

On hearing the door to the bedroom close behind Greg, Mycroft stood from the sofa, taking advantage of the fact that the spare room had been offered as an alternative. It told him that the banishment from their bedroom was not a punishment, but rather a statement. It was not a case of Greg wanting him to be uncomfortable, but rather a clue that he needed space.

The guest bedroom was dark, but Mycroft did not bother to turn the light on as he moved across the room and into the en suite. The solitude was a chance to run through the events which had led them to this point, sleeping at separate ends of the flat because Greg had no desire to be in the same room as him. The buzz of the extractor fan was not close to loud enough for Mycroft to ignore that fact that his mind was analysing every movement he had made and word he had spoken since arriving at the Christmas gathering in the late afternoon. He sped through the first few hours of the evening, sure that nothing of interest had happened during them.

Sherlock's arrival had been the turning point, he decided. The awkward looks on Greg and John's faces which he had barely noticed as he and his brother had exchanged pleasantries which disguised mocking and mild threats. Nothing out of the ordinary for the two of them, until Sherlock had attacked his relationship, and Mycroft had made a jab about John. He paused in brushing his teeth, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. Of course, that had been the point, the step too far. Greg could accept, if not understand, the way in which Mycroft and Sherlock interacted. Drawing other people into their arguments, however, was clearly not allowed.

Mycroft washed his face and changed into pyjamas, setting the alarm on his phone before beginning to make the bed. He was glad that they kept a spare set of sheets in the room, avoiding the need to disturb Greg, who would likely already be asleep. Greg would hope for an apology, though he would not expect one in the traditional form, as Mycroft never apologised sincerely with words. After a moment's consideration Mycroft picked up his phone, setting the alarm half an hour earlier. Breakfast would have to suffice as a show of the sentimentality which his partner desired.


	5. Unbreakable

Day Five

Theme - Unbreakable

Time Frame - Late 2011

* * *

"Thank you, Detective Inspector. It is most heartening to hear that Doctor Watson continues to be such a positive influence for my brother." Mycroft's thanks was sincere, though there was a time when Greg had not been so sure that it was. The two men did their best to meet for a brief conversation every other week (crime and country allowing) to keep each other updated on Sherlock. They had been doing so since a newly clean Sherlock had first been allowed to help with cold cases nearly five years previously. The meetings of late had felt less necessary, with John's presence in Sherlock's life, but they had persisted with them regardless.

"I wouldn't exactly say he was a good influence," Greg countered, leaning back in his chair a little. "John grounds him, sure, but they get in just as much trouble together as Sherlock ever did alone. He encourages it, with his brilliants and his fantastics."

"Yet, I find myself having to intervene a lot less now that Doctor Watson is around to watch Sherlock's back, so to speak," Mycroft replied.

"Yeah, well, that gun he doesn't have probably helps," Greg muttered, "The one I absolutely don't know about." He shook his head, grinning.

"I do appreciate you overlooking its unlicensed nature," Mycroft said, and Greg snorted.

"You could license it for him, I know you could. Even if you didn't tell him you'd done so. But anything I can do to help keep Sherlock safe I will, you know that. It's one thing I haven't managed to completely screw up yet."

"Your wife," Mycroft stated after a moment's pause. "Another affair?" Greg was aware that the question was rhetorical, but nodded a reply anyway.

"Yeah, past two months. She's not even really bothering to try and hide it." Greg sighed. "Anyway, I should go. Work to get back to, as always. I'll see you in a couple of weeks, yeah?" He stood, starting to shrug his coat on.

"Of course. I'll have Anthea text you to organise a time when we are both available." Greg nodded, glancing away from Mycroft as he did up his coat. His fingers paused as a hand came to rest on his shoulder, and when he looked up Mycroft was standing in front of him. He watched as the other man's emotionless mask was allowed to slip a little, emotions chasing each other briefly across his face. Not much, but enough to let Greg know that Mycroft was about to say something which he deemed very important.

"Gregory," The voice was soft, tone far more open than his face had been. "She is… foolish, to do this to you. It is not your fault." Greg bit out a bitter laugh.

"She may be the one having an affair, but I'm the one who's been a crap husband." The hand on his shoulder was warm, grounding him with a gentle grip. Greg allowed it to stay. "I'm the one who's hardly ever home," he added. He was sick of making excuses for his wife, sick of making himself feel bad for her decisions and, most of all, he was sick of arguing with her about them when she did not even have the decency to pretend that she realised it was wrong.

"Nonsense, she was aware of your dedication to your job when she married you. How she is handling the situation borders on cruel. You must realise that you deserve better." Greg shook his head, shrugging the hand off.

"She wants a divorce, told me last week when I confronted her about the affair. Think I've left it a touch late to find better. Anyway, you don't need this and I've got work to do. See you soon." Greg headed for the door, suddenly desperate to get out of the room, to give himself some space.

"Gregory," the word paused him at the door, and Greg turned back, "I still say that she is in the wrong. Don't let her break your heart, she doesn't deserve the power to do that."

"Too late for that, I think," Greg replied, "But I'm made of sterner stuff than you think. I'll be fine." It was a brave front, and they both knew it. "Any danger nights I need to know about? I'll try to keep him busy with cases." He did not attempt to hide the fact that he was changing the subject, and was relieved when Mycroft played along.

"No, none. He should be fine. I will see you in a fortnight, Inspector."


	6. Obsession

Day Six

Theme - Obsession

* * *

Standing in front of the display of black leaf tea in Whittards, Greg felt almost entirely lost. There was a list in his pocket which named several types of tea which he was supposed to be purchasing, but despite this detail he felt distinctly out of his depth.

When he had woken up he had been faced with a very ill Mycroft. He had never seen the other man with so much as a sniffle before, but it had been clear that Mycroft was suffering from a nasty case of the flu. Greg had managed to convince him to call in ill only when he had tried to get out of bed and been hit by a wave of light headedness. He had ignored the muttered complaints and threats as he tucked his partner back into bed, and almost immediately been sent out with a list of tea which Mycroft apparently could not live without. He had refused to leave the flat before making sure that the laptop and phone were out of Mycroft's reach so that he could not try to work from bed.

"Can I help you?" Greg's concentration was pulled from the tea by a voice at his shoulder. He turned to see a young woman in the shop's uniform standing just behind him, smiling brightly.

"Please, I'm a little lost," he admitted.

"Well, what were you looking for?"

"I have a list," he told her, pulling the crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and glancing down at the first item. "Breakfast tea."

"Just sent on a pick up, then?" she asked, reaching to a shelf just above her head and pulling down a tin to put in the basket that Greg was carrying. "English Breakfast tea, black, loose leaf, should be the one you want. What's next?"

"Yeah, he usually picks up the tea himself, but he's on bed rest for flu. Don't see what's wrong with teabags, myself. Right, um, orange and strawberry?"

"He's not converted you yet?" she asked, leading the way across the shop to a stand stacked with green boxes. "Here we are, flavoured green tea." She plucked a box from one of the shelves and handed it to him.

"He keeps trying. I think it's an addiction, personally, he's obsessed with the stuff. Earl Grey, next. But tea is just tea, as far as I'm concerned, and I prefer coffee." Greg dropped the box into his basket as he followed her back across the shop.

"Hardly, proper tea is much superior. Like the difference between instant and bean coffee." Another tin was placed into the basket. "You've got morning and afternoon teas, for breakfast or snack breaks or after dinner. Low caffeine green teas, which are good for relaxing, or just before bed so you're not up all night, see?" She gestured to different stands around the shop as she spoke.

"I still say obsessive," Greg replied, smiling fondly at the last item on the list, carefully written in Mycroft's tidy handwriting. "Last one says, 'something to help clear this damn cold'. He wouldn't touch a Lemsip this morning."

"Well, if it is an obsession you're only feeding it. But at least it's not a dangerous one." She laughed as he quoted the note. "I don't blame him, Lemsip is vile stuff. We have some soothing, caffeine free teas." She moved off across the shop again as she spoke. "The lemon, ginger and Echinacea is great for clearing up colds, and tastes much better than a mug of badly disguised painkillers." He nodded and she passed him a box of tea bags to add to his basket. "That lot should last him a while, even if you decide to take up tea drinking too. Anything else you need?"

"Nope, just a bill. Maybe a hospital when I see how much he spends on this stuff." The young woman grinned, ringing up the items and taking the notes which Greg handed her. She handed over his change and receipt, waiting for him to put them away before passing him the carrier bag which held his purchases.

"Well, tell him to get well soon, and try some of those with him. I bet you'll enjoy them."

"And probably spoil myself for tea forever," Greg replied, rolling his eyes as he headed for the door. "Thanks for the help."

The flat was dark when Greg let himself in, curtains drawn tight shut and all the lights off. The only source of light was the television, which was playing softly. He sighed as he caught sight of Mycroft, curled up in the duvet and dozing on the sofa. He stirred as Greg approached, peering through the dim light.

"You're supposed to be in bed," Greg told him, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead and taking the opportunity to check on the state of his fever. Still a little warm, but not enough to cause concern.

"I was bored, and there's a documentary about the second world war on," Mycroft told him, settling further down into the duvet. "Did you manage to get the tea?"

"There's always a documentary about the second world war on, love." Greg made his way into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and packing the tea away as he called back into the living room. "Found everything you asked for." He did not receive a reply, and turned his focus to making up two mugs to take back through with him.

Mycroft was dozing again by the time Greg was finished making the tea. He placed the mugs carefully on the coffee table before nudging his way gently onto the sofa and under the duvet. The movement roused Mycroft and he shifted to make space for Greg to curl up beside him.

"Hey," Greg said, rearranging the duvet around them. "Brought you some tea."

"Which one?" Mycroft asked, taking the mug that Greg passed him and sniffing it.

"Lemon, ginger and Echinacea, apparently it's good for colds." Mycroft nodded, sipping the tea and sighing contentedly.

The mugs were soon empty, and Mycroft shut his eyes, resting his head on Greg's shoulder and allowing himself to be pulled into a hug, propped against Greg's chest. "Thank you," he muttered.

"Anytime," Greg murmured in reply, lips pressed to Mycroft's hair as the body in his arms relaxed into sleep.


	7. Eternity

**AN: **Before we begin, I want to offer my apologies for the delay between the last chapter and this one. I had some writer's block issues with this piece, and the 1 per day goal fell by the wayside a little. Hopefully we'll be back on track soon. :)

Day Seven

Theme - Eternity

* * *

The week had been hectic for the both of them and Greg was glad that it was nearly over. Mycroft had spent the first part of the week abroad, leaving early on Monday morning and not returning until late on Thursday afternoon. A minor emergency had seen him in the office for fifteen hour days ever since. Greg's week had kicked off with a triple murder-suicide, which had turned out to be a well-disguised quadruple murder, something Sherlock had pointed out as obvious as soon as he was let loose on the scene. They had a suspect in custody, thanks to the consulting detective, and Greg had finally found the chance to spend more than just a handful of hours at home. The Saturday night and all of Sunday were his, and he planned to spend as much of it as possible sleeping and otherwise relaxing.

It was late on Saturday evening before the two men had a chance to speak for longer than it took to call potential, often hopeful, finishing hours to each other in the hopes that their brief time at home would cross over for a more significant stretch of time. They were curled up in bed, both trying to will their bodies down from the adrenaline and caffeine which had kept them going through the past few days. Greg rolled onto his side, shifting across the mattress so that he could throw an arm over Mycroft, pressing his nose into his partner's neck.

"Hey," he muttered.

"Hello," Mycroft replied, moving slightly to fit himself against Greg more comfortably.

"How was your trip? I haven't seen you for long enough to ask." Greg was not expecting much of a reply. He knew it was likely that there was not much that Mycroft was allowed to tell, but a vague idea was better than no idea.

"Successful, with fewer shots fired than expected." Mycroft shrugged off Greg's arm, rolling over to face him. "It could be counted as good, I suppose, in the general scheme of things."

"Fewer shots? How many were you expecting?" Greg did his best to ignore the twist of worry in his gut at Mycroft's words. He was back, safe and well, regardless of how much danger there had been.

"More than the few that there were," Mycroft told him, pressing forwards for a soft kiss. "Try not to worry, none of them hit anyone in my party."

"New rule," Greg muttered, "no getting assassinated during official business."

"Of course, I'll make sure I get shot at on my own time," Mycroft promised, reaching for Greg's hand under the duvet. "New rule for you, too. No more getting yourself beaten up at work." Greg smiled as Mycroft skimmed a hand up his arm and to his face, running his fingers gently over the bruise which was forming around his eye.

"Suspect didn't want to come in, took offence to my trying to arrest him. We've added assault on an officer to his list of charges." Greg let his eyes close, relaxing into the mattress. "Will you be home much tomorrow?"

"I have to be in the office for a conference call in the afternoon. Other than that, I should be able to work from the flat," Mycroft told him. "I'll be working, though."

"I'm just glad we'll both be in the same place for a few hours," Greg said, wrapping an arm around Mycroft again as his partner pulled the duvet further up over them. "I meant it, you know. No getting yourself killed at work."

"I'll do my best, as I always have. Despite what you seem to think, I have no wish to meet an early death at the hands of anyone," Mycroft assured him.

"Good, I want you here for as long as possible." Greg stifled a yawn as he spoke.

"Well, that is good to hear. Time is limited enough, without allowing it to become any shorter."

"Are you saying you don't plan to wait for me, after?" Greg asked, pushing at Mycroft lightly with his shoulder.

"If you're referring to an afterlife, Gregory, I must inform you that I believe in no such thing. It is simply illogical. Besides which, it's not really a pleasant thought. Eternity anywhere seems like a rather dull idea." Mycroft's voice was heavy with sleep as he spoke, and it was almost enough for Greg to take pity on him and end the conversation. Almost.

"Really? The chance to spend more time with people you care about doesn't seem so bad. Particularly when some of those people happen to spend a good portion of their time running the country and napping in their office," Greg pressed, yawning again as he finished speaking.

The room returned to near silence, Mycroft listening to Greg's breathing slow and feeling the detective's body relax against him as he fell asleep. Several minutes later, as he began to drift off himself, he took a moment to really consider what it was that Greg had said.

"Perhaps you are not wrong. Eternity would certainly be a rather less unpleasant idea, were you there to share it with." Greg stirred, cracking an eye open.

"Love you, too," he murmured against the shoulder that he had settled his head against before settling back to sleep. Mycroft smiled to himself, letting his own eyes fall closed.


	8. Gateway

Day Eight

Theme - Gateway

Time Frame - Late 2016

* * *

"Are you sure that the family is expecting you?" Greg bit back a sigh at the question, leaning away from the hood of his car and towards the intercom before replying.

"Completely sure." He had been standing at the large gate for far longer than he felt should be necessary, waiting for the man staffing the entrance to decide whether or not he would be allowed into the grounds of the Holmes estate.

"I can check the list of allowed visitors again, if you're sure. Remind me of your name?" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose as static crackled over the intercom when the other end was disconnected to allow him to reply.

"Greg Lestrade. L-E-S-T-R-A-D-E," he replied. The line was silent for a moment before the connection clicked back to life.

"You're not on our list of allowed visitors, Mr. Lestrade. I can't let you in. I'll have to ask you to leave the gate." It sounded almost like an apology. Greg would not have minded, if not for the multiple times he had already been to the estate and the fact that he had never had a problem gaining access through the front gate before. He stared at the intercom for a moment before pulling out his phone and heading back to the driver's seat of his car.

Greg's first attempt to call Mycroft rang through to the answering machine and he hung up without leaving a message. Before trying again he sent texts to John and Sherlock, both of whom would already be there. His own lateness had been caused by a case which had begun that morning, and Greg had wanted to wrap up before he left.

A further five minutes passed before he received any reply to his attempts to contact those inside. A text from John informed him that he had told Mycroft and someone would let him in shortly. The intercom crackled into life once or twice in the time, he assumed with reminders that he had been asked to leave, and Lestrade chose to ignore it.

He restarted the car when the gate opened, taking a moment to slip it into gear before starting along the driveway towards the house. Pulling up outside the garage, Greg smiled to himself as he caught sight of Mycroft in the light from his headlights. After parking the car and cutting the engine, Greg climbed out of the car and crossed the driveway to Mycroft. "Sorry I'm late."

"Work is unpredictable, I understand," Mycroft replied. Greg's smile widened as he felt hands settle on his hips, pulling him close enough to Mycroft to allow the other man to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Got the bugger from the hit and run, though." The week had been quiet, and Greg had found himself spending more time than usual in his office, following up on old cases and catching up on paperwork. In the mid-morning, however, they had been called out to the scene of a nasty series of hit and runs which had left two victims in a critical state in the nearby hospital and  
one fatality. CCTV had given them a number plate, and the owner had informed them that the car had been driven by her husband that morning. Finding the man had been the more difficult part, and it had taken until the early evening to find and arrest him at his parent's house. Once he was back at the Yard, Greg had cleared up what remained of the paperwork while the man was questioned, passing what remained of the case on to his team before finally making it out of the Yard just over two hours after he had planned to leave. The two hour drive which had followed in order to get to the Holmes estate was further extended by the weekend traffic leaving London.

"They will not miss us for at least half an hour," Mycroft commented.

"Have I ever shown you the grounds?" When Greg raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. "My week has been busy, I've barely seen you. It would be nice to spend a little time together before we return to the party and have to deal with my brother."

"I bet he hates the fuss your Mum's making about it." Greg grinned, stepping away from Mycroft and reaching out his hand. "Come on, then, I've never had the chance to see what the gardens are like here."

"Mummy's already told him off twice for deducing the relatives." Mycroft's reply was almost gleeful as he took Greg's hand and led him away from the front of the house. Greg let himself be led, following Mycroft around the side of the building, past brightly lit windows and through an archway of hedging.

"I've never told you mother about the respect I hold for her, bringing up you two and still being able to get Sherlock to behave. Her patience must rival even John's." He stopped beside Mycroft, exhaling softly as they looked down over the garden. It was late in the evening, but the large stretch of garden was well lit by the moonlight, and more stars than they would ever see in London. The garden at the side of the house fell away in terraces. Some were filled with small, bright flowers, while others were empty, waiting for the spring when they would be planted out. Greg could hear the quiet trickle of water from somewhere off to their right.

"Mummy's a keen botanist," Mycroft said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the evening as he started down the steps which led down the terraces. He paused at the bottom of the first set of steps, waiting for Greg to follow him before continuing. "There are plants in the greenhouses that you'll find no other specimens of in Britain. Some of which are one of only a handful in the world." Greg nodded in reply, reaching for Mycroft's hand again.

"It's beautiful out here. We'll have to visit in summer, when it's all in bloom," he suggested. "What else is out here?"

"When our schedules allow it, we'll make sure to do so." Mycroft grinned at Greg's question, tugging on his hand once again and carrying on down the path. "There are lawns for sports, boules and croquette, though Mummy doesn't play either. Tennis courts on the other side of the house. We used to come over here for the holidays, and Sherlock and I would spend hours out in the grounds. He liked the forest." Mycroft gestured vaguely towards the left of the house as he spoke, still walking in the opposite direction. "I preferred the lake, over this way."

"Never figured either of you for the outdoors types," Greg told him.

"It was often more pleasant outside of the house than inside with our parents," Mycroft replied shortly, increasing his pace as they climbed a small incline. He paused at the top of the small hill. "Here."

Greg did not let him pause for long, taking the lead for the first time and moving them towards the edge of the small lake. The surface was undisturbed, reflecting the night sky perfectly. A few large trees grew close to the edge of the water and Greg steered them towards the closest. He leant his back against the trunk, unworried about the state of his work clothes; Mycroft would have bought a suit for him to change into before they rejoined the party. "It's beautiful. What did you do out here?"

"Reading, mostly." Mycroft stood just off to his side, keeping himself away from the mossy tree trunk. "Sherlock would join me sometimes, and we'd categorise the water plants and any wildlife we saw." There was a wistfulness to his voice, and Greg caught his wrist, tugging him closer. Mycroft allowed himself to be moved, leaning back against Greg's chest with a soft, content sigh.

"Sounds lovely," Greg muttered, resting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder. "Hey, I wanted to ask something."

"Hmm?" Mycroft hummed his reply, rather disinclined to move from his comfortable position.

"The guy on the gate said I wasn't on the list of people allowed to visit. I just wondered…" Mycroft grinned, lifting his hands to cover Greg's, which were clasped together over the politician's stomach.

"You're not on it for the same reason that John, Sherlock and myself are not listed. You're family, more or less. It is assumed that anyone on the gate will know that you are always welcome. You simply had the misfortune to be turned away by a new employee this evening." Greg tightened his embrace slightly, shifting so that he could press his face against Mycroft's shoulder.

"We should head inside," Greg said eventually. "I want to see how Sherlock's reacting to all this sentiment, and congratulate John." Mycroft's hand slipped into his once more, and they began the walk back towards the house in a comfortable quiet.


	9. Death

Greg had rarely been more pleased to shrug on his coat and leave Scotland Yard at the end of a day. He had spent the afternoon in his office, filling out the last of the paperwork to fully close off a nasty serial murder case that his team had been working on. The trial had finished the previous day and it was a case that Greg was glad to see the back of.

Going through the paperwork and case notes to check that they were all in order and signed off before they were filed away had meant that he had had to see the crime scene photos again. Murder cases were always difficult, but this one had been particularly tough on everyone involved. Their murderer, now safely locked away for the rest of his life, had targeted children and young teenagers.

Greg was not unused to death. His job brought him into contact with the dead on a near daily basis, and human morality was not a concept which he struggled with. He had not managed to get his head around why exactly people felt the need to kill each other, but he had resigned himself to the fact that they did. This fact, however, did not make it any easier to look over the reports and photos which documented six young lives which had been cut short. Nor did it help with the nagging thought that maybe, if they had been a little quicker, a little cleverer, they might have caught him in time to save at least one, maybe two.

He shook the thought off as he climbed into his car that evening. They had caught him, and guilting himself was not going to do anything to bring back the kids, nor make the families left behind feel any better. Starting up the car and merging with the traffic crawling through London, he headed towards the nearby leisure centre. It was just ten minutes away, in the same direction as home, and he had a membership for the purpose of days such as this one.

Over his years at the Yard, Greg had put together a very specific, step by step method for coping on the days when the crimes he had to deal with were almost too much. The days when the sheer depravity of some parts of humanity, the never ending list of crap that they did to each other, made him begin to wonder why any of them bothered.

It began at the aforementioned leisure centre. He stopped in the car park, pulled his kit from the boot, and headed inside. He swam for half an hour, lengths of front crawl in one of the lanes. When that was done he dried off and changed, heading into the gym. He stayed, making use of the available machines, until he could hear his heartbeat in his ears and his chest burned with the effort to breathe. The sweat stuck the edges of his hair to his face, and if he had not been exhausted by work, he was by the time he stepped off of the treadmill.

Once he was done in the gym he drove himself home. His work and gym clothes both found their way into the dirty wash and he took a shower long enough and hot enough to empty the boiler. He would later remember to put the water heater back on for an hour to make sure there was enough for when the heating kicked in.

Once he was done with the shower he pulled on comfortable pyjamas and, after a moment's consideration, Mycroft's dressing gown. He set the kettle to boil to make himself a mug of green tea, needing the comfort of a hot drink without the caffeine, and dug through the fridge for the ingredients to make a sandwich. He would wait until Mycroft arrived home to have a proper meal, and he planned to insist on take away.

He ate curled up on the sofa, ignoring the multitude of news channels that Sky offered in favour of a documentary about African animals which he was not really paying attention to. Once his plate was empty he sent three texts, sipping tea as he waited for replies.

Sent to: Mum

_Hi Mum. Sorry I haven't spoken to you for a while, work's been hectic. I'll call you this weekend. Give my love to Dad._

Sent to: John Watson

_Hey mate. Any chance we can put off the pub until next week? Work's been rough and I need a night in._

Sent to: Mycroft Holmes

_Expecting to be late tonight, or should I wait up?_

He had finished his tea and started to slip into a doze on the sofa before he received a reply. His phone chimed twice in quick succession, startling him back to wakefulness.

From: John Watson

_That's fine. See you next week, crime allowing._

Greg knew that really, John meant Sherlock allowing. If the detective decided to take off after something there was no way they would make it to the pub for a couple of pints, as they did their best to do every so often.

From: Mycroft Holmes

_Home by eight, bar any unexpected developments._

Greg grinned at the message, tapping out a reply before leaving his phone on the coffee table and settling back against the sofa.

Sent to: Mycroft Holmes

_Will order Chinese to be delivered at half eight. If you're not back I'll eat it all, and it'll be your fault._

It was unusual for the both of them to be home at any reasonable time of night, and Greg could not help but feel pleased when he heard the door to the flat open shortly after eight o'clock. He stayed on the sofa, twisting his neck so that he could offer Mycroft a smile as he walked into the front room.

"Hey, how was your day?"

"The only redeeming quality of today was that it was short," Mycroft replied, shrugging off his suit jacket as he spoke. He perched himself on the sofa beside Greg, relaxing back into the cushions only when the DI shifted to lean against him. "Yours?"

Once, the end of a bad day would have been followed by purposefully avoiding discussion of whatever had bothered him with his wife for fear of upsetting her. Later, any attempt to bring up what he was having a difficult time with had been the beginning of more than one of their arguments. He had never blamed her for not wanting to know. He knew how difficult it was to cope with the situations he faced at work. He also knew, however, that Mycroft was honestly interested.

"Closed off the serial murder case we've been working on. Not great fun to revisit." Greg felt an arm wrap around his shoulders, fingers running gently through his hair. He sighed, letting himself sink further against Mycroft, trying to remind himself that it was pointless to fall asleep before the food arrived. "Don't really want to talk about it."

"Understandable," Mycroft told him, leaning back so that Greg's head fell to rest on his chest. "I'll wake you up when dinner arrives."


	10. Opportunities

Day Ten

Theme - Opportunities

* * *

In his professional life, Mycroft Holmes never missed an opportunity. He could not afford to do so. Missed opportunities led to people dead and wars started, political scandals or people who needed to disappear. That was the part of Mycroft's job he disliked the most.

His private life, or what little of it existed, was quite a different matter. He had missed chances to prevent and end Sherlock's addiction several times, too focused on building a career to spend much time on what his brother was doing to himself. He had missed out on time he could have spent with his mother and brother as a child, choosing instead to believe he was better off with his father. More recently, the past four months had presented him with no fewer than three situations in which he could have (and very much wanted to) kiss Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft had not acted upon any of them, and his frustration with himself at this fact was growing.

The first had arisen during one of their semi-regular dinners, which had become significantly more social once they no longer felt the need to go into detail over what Sherlock had been doing. Greg had told Mycroft that he looked exhausted, ordered their usual, and then told Mycroft to relax because he was much more fun when he was not quite so uptight. Mycroft had gaped for a moment before allowing himself to shrug off the feeling at work. He spent the rest of the meeting torn between the need to thank Greg for snapping him out of work mode and the urge to grab his shirt and pull him across the table for a kiss for being the only person who would openly say they wanted to see the casual side of him. He had entertained the idea until Greg had excused himself to take a call from his wife. She was having an affair - Greg was not yet aware of the latest one. But Mycroft knew that Greg would not stoop to the same. No doubt Sherlock would tell him less than tactfully later.

The second came when Mycroft made one of his infrequent visits to the Yard. A case had come up directly related to more than one of his people, and they already had someone on it. He was well aware that there was not enough hours in the day to work on all the crime the Yard was expected to cope with, and hoped that the visit would avoid wasted manpower. He found Greg slumped at his desk, staring gloomily at a mug of coffee as if it held the answer to all of his problems.

"Tell me Mycroft, am I stupid, or just blind?" he asked without preamble. A detached part of Mycroft's brain wondered if Greg had worked it out, if Sherlock had pointed it out again, or if she had finally admitted to the affair.

"Neither," Mycroft replied, settling himself into the extra chair in the room. "You simply believe the best of the people you trust."

"Six months, though. With the same bloke as last time. How did I miss that?" Greg slumped further into his chair, and Mycroft had to remind himself that it was not appropriate to show Greg just how much of a fool he thought the other man's wife was.

The third time was not long afterwards. Sherlock and John were at Baskerville, and Mycroft did not have the time to go and keep an eye on them. It took no time at all to secure the DI another week of holiday once he had agreed to travel. It took only seconds on seeing him to notice the obvious lack of wedding ring, and no longer to conclude that there was a divorce in the works and even though he should be offering sympathy all he could think about was that his main reason for not pursuing the other man was now gone.

The next time that an opportunity arose was less than a month later. "Mycroft? I wasn't expecting, that is..." Greg sighed, stepping back from the doorway to let Mycroft into his flat. "Sorry about the mess, wasn't expecting visitors. Everything okay? Did you get my message about having to cancel our meeting?"

"Everything's fine. I thought I'd bring our meeting to you, given the circumstances." He held up the carrier bag of takeaway. Greg smiled, hobbling back into the main room and towards the kitchen. "I'll get crockery, you're meant to be resting your leg."

"It's a sprained ankle, I'm not broken," Greg replied, turning towards the sofa with a huff. "There's beer in the fridge. Have you been in my medical file again?"

"No," Mycroft replied from the kitchen, "You called off our meeting, something you only do in the case of illness or injury. The limp was obvious in the sound of your footsteps, and no cast suggests a sprain rather than a break or fracture. And it will only heal if you rest it." He returned to place down two loaded plates, the Chinese having been carefully split between them, returning to the kitchen briefly to open two of the bottles of beer. Somewhere between entering the flat and sitting down he had shed his suit jacket and waistcoat, as well as rolled] up his shirt sleeves. Greg was sure he had never seen the other man look so relaxed.

"Thanks." Greg balanced the plate on the leg he had propped up, wincing a little as he shifted his foot into a more stable position.

The evening passed slowly, comfortably, and despite the original purpose - talking about how Sherlock was doing - they instead discussed almost anything but. Greg recounted how he had managed to do his ankle in, chasing Sherlock around London after a serial murderer who left riddles in Latin at the site of the murders but not where he dumped the bodies. Then he bemoaned the fact that his first week off since Baskerville was medical and meant he could not leave the house. Mycroft told him surprisingly amusing anecdotes about politicians from countries he had sometimes never heard of.

When the food was finished, plates in the dishwasher and empty beer bottles in the recycling, they kept talking. Mycroft lost Greg to a fit of chuckling after a particularly amusing story about a miscommunication in Venezuela (thanks in part to incompetent translators). When he regained the ability to speak, Greg looked up, a large grin still on his face. Mycroft felt his breath catch as they made eye contact. Somewhere in the back of his mind part of him was shouting that this was yet another opportunity that he was going to miss - that he was being a coward and if he was not going to do something he should at least initiate a discussion. The voice was promptly shut up by the feeling of lips pressing gently against his own. He shut his eyes immediately, failing to react but focusing down on the feeling.

When Greg pulled back, both an eternity and no time at all later, the silence stretched out. Both Mycroft and his internal monologue were in too much shock to be anything but, and Greg appeared to be waiting for a reaction. After a moment he dropped his gaze, running his hand through his hair.

"Shit. I - Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed-"

The apology shook Mycroft from his frozen state and he reached out for the DI, catching his arm with one hand and bringing the other up to his neck, leaning in for another kiss, just as soft as the first. Partly to prove to himself that he had not imagined the experience and partly to prevent Greg from backing out of what was happening. Hands hovered for a moment, then settled on his waist, warm through the thin material of his shirt. He felt Greg shift closer, tilt his head slightly, and the kiss transitioned smoothly from slightly awkward to just right and oh so easy. Mycroft was tempted to follow when Greg pulled back, contenting himself instead with watching another smile spread across his face and matching it with his own.

"Right, well, good then." Greg nodded, returning his hands to himself. "Right?"

"Fine," Mycroft agreed.


	11. 33

Theme - 33%

* * *

"Did you enjoy the party?" Mycroft asked, putting his book aside as Greg slid into the bed beside him.

"It was good, yeah." Greg settled down against his pillows, reaching out to pull Mycroft down beside him. "Lucky bugger's retiring to the South of France."

"Very nice," Mycroft agreed. "Where are they moving to?"

"Not a clue," Greg replied, shifting to accommodate for Mycroft's head on his shoulder. "He was too busy talking about the past to focus on the details of what he's doing next." He ran his free hand down Mycroft's arm, linking their fingers together. "What about you?"

"Hmm?" Mycroft's reply was sleepy, and his eyes closed as he snuggled closer to Greg.

"Retiring, where would you like to go? I've always fancied North Wales, myself," Greg commented. Mycroft tensed, pulling away and reaching to turn the bedside light on. He moved to sit at the edge of the bed.

"I have never really considered it," Mycroft replied. Greg pushed himself up, shifting to sit behind him.

"Hey, what's wrong? I'm not talking imminently." He pulled Mycroft back against him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"I have never considered retirement, it is an unlikely ending to my career." Mycroft leant back into Greg's touch. Greg pressed his lips to the spot behind Mycroft's ear, waiting for him to continue. "Of my predecessors, only thirty three percent have retired. The remainder have either been assassinated, worked until they died, or been fired and therefore required termination for the sake of the nation's safety." Greg sighed, nuzzling against Mycroft's neck.

"Come back to bed," he murmured. They both moved back under the duvet. Greg curled himself around Mycroft, pressing his chest to the younger man's back and burying his face against Mycroft's hair.

"I can not afford to plan for a long term future. It will likely end in disappointment," Mycroft continued.

"Love, you can't assume the worst because of statistics. I'm not going to let you stay at work forever, for one. You've got a great security team, I've met them. You're going to be okay, Mycroft, if I have to drag you away from work and into retirement myself." Mycroft reached over for Greg's hand, pulling it over his shoulder and bringing it up to his lips as the older man spoke.

"I have never before had much to consider retiring for," he admitted, almost too quietly for Greg to hear. "Work was what I had. It kept me busy and gave me the ability to look after Sherlock." Mycroft shifted himself to press closer to the man behind him.

"And now?" Greg asked.

"Now, I believe that North Wales sounds lovely," Mycroft replied. Greg grinned and pressed his face into the back of Mycroft's neck. "Good night."

"Night," Greg whispered, reaching out to tug the duvet further up over them and closing his eyes.


End file.
